“Suicide is painless. It brings on many changes. And I can take or leave it if I please.”

Remember those lyrics to the M*A*S*H theme song? Well, it wasn’t sung in the opening of the show, but I had the sheet music when I was 9 to play on the piano. I thought those words were so odd to me at that age. What on earth could be painless about killing yourself?

But I’ve learned in my adult years, that to the person who commits suicide, the pain of living is greater than the act of death. Hard to comprehend, I know.

There’s been much talk about suicide after Robin Williams’ death on Monday. Many bloggers have written about the topic. Some with stupidity and ignorance that makes me cringe, and some with understanding, poignancy and heart that reaches out to those who might be in a dark place.

I’m not writing this as click-bait. I’m sort of jumping on the bandwagon, I suppose. But I want to keep the dialogue going. And I want to offer my comfort and love to those suffering among the living.

Not the depressed ones, no. The survivors of someone they love that has committed suicide. This post is for them. I know a few, sadly. And what I’ve been reading and hearing on the Internet and social media makes my heart break for them. Because it’s no one’s place to judge or condemn their loved one for something that person did. Albeit final, permanent and devastating, but not their place to judge. No.

The stages of grief are first Denial and then Anger. I think some people dwell in the stage of Anger longer than is appropriate.

Can you imagine your mother or husband taking their own life? Leaving you behind to grow up alone with your sisters, or raise children without a partner? I can’t either. I do feel angry for those left behind. I could scream on their behalf. But I’m not the one living it. It’s not my place to judge.

But I know people that are living this. And I want to tell them that there is no shame. The pain of that family member was so great, so confounding that no one can understand. And it isn’t anyone’s right or place to tell them what ‘choice’ (not my words) they made. They were sick. Sure it wasn’t cancer, but they were sick. And it’s not my place to judge.

The mind’s chemistry is still a mystery. But we have come many strides in science to know that there are chemicals the body needs to function. Just like insulin or oxygen, we need a balance. And when that balance is off, things can go haywire.

How horrible that Sarah goes to school ashamed she has no father because he killed himself over the summer when he lost his battle with Bipolar Disorder. But Sally’s mom passed away from cancer and everyone is making her cards and offering help. But Sarah’s mom and siblings don’t talk about their loss. They’re too ashamed. Everyone says, “How could he do such a thing? How could he leave his family like that?”

He didn’t rob a bank. He didn’t gun down a school. He was sick. Just like Sally’s mom. He was sick. And the flames of pain and darkness burned too hot. It’s not our place to judge.

I can’t say it better than David Foster Wallace:

“The so-called ‘psychotically depressed’ person who tries to kill herself doesn’t do so out of quote ‘hopelessness’ or any abstract conviction that life’s assets and debits do not square. And surely not because death seems suddenly appealing. The person in whom Its invisible agony reaches a certain unendurable level will kill herself the same way a trapped person will eventually jump from the window of a burning high-rise. Make no mistake about people who leap from burning windows. Their terror of falling from a great height is still just as great as it would be for you or me standing speculatively at the same window just checking out the view; i.e. the fear of falling remains a constant. The variable here is the other terror, the fire’s flames: when the flames get close enough, falling to death becomes the slightly less terrible of two terrors. It’s not desiring the fall; it’s terror of the flames. And yet nobody down on the sidewalk, looking up and yelling ‘Don’t!’ and ‘Hang on!’, can understand the jump. Not really. You’d have to have personally been trapped and felt flames to really understand a terror way beyond falling.”

I feel so unqualified to even broach this topic. But battling depression myself, knowing a friend who sought help to keep from attempting suicide, and the dear loved ones of friends and family that I know who are survivors of suicide; I can only offer my words as a salve. A balm to their wounds that might wear off temporarily, but hopefully will be felt at a time of need. It’s not my place to judge. And it’s not yours either.

What if I was so depressed, so profoundly sad, so completely out of my right mind, I took a gun to my head and ended my life? Would you judge me? Would you wonder why I didn’t get help? Wonder why didn’t I get some anti-depressants? Why didn’t anyone see the signs?

Now imagine knowing someone who is on anti-depressants. Or imagine knowing someone who checked themselves into a crisis center or psych ward. Someone who told their spouse they needed help. Would you judge them? Would you say they are weak for relying on drugs or therapy to help them get through their day? Would you say they shouldn’t have had children in the first place?

Harsh, huh?

All these things HAVE been said though. Not to me maybe. But maybe to you. Or your friend. Or maybe you have said those things once or twice.

Depression is like any other medical condition that needs help. It is not a bad mood to snap out of. It is not a blue time that’s easy to pass. It’s a serious disease. Like heart disease. Diabetes. Arthritis. Addiction.

If someone needs a medication for them to live with a disease then let them. Support them.

Would you tell the woman who’s ready to take her husband’s hand gun out of the safe, to just snap out of it? To just exercise more, take a few vitamins?

I didn’t think so.

I wish I didn’t know of 8 children that don’t have a parent because that parent took their own life. 2 moms and even a dad. You hardly hear about the men. But my cousin jumped off a building when his boys were just of preschool age. I didn’t know him very well to even begin to understand how someone could do that.

My childhood friend took her husband’s service revolver and shot herself in bed on Memorial day. Her family thought she was getting ready for work. They were at a relative’s for a barbecue. She had been unhappy. On pain medication. Withdrawn. Was there anything anybody could do? I don’t know. The what-ifs are a mile long. Does everyone now wish they could’ve done something? Yes. The pain is so raw, so great. Not just to those little girls that are left without a mother each of their birthdays and Christmases. But the mother of this woman, who still misses her little girl. Her sisters who miss weekends at the lake and summer days by the pool. Her husband that wants his wife there for his girls.

Then there’s my neighbor. 5 years ago she was home with her four little girls. She had been hospitalized for depression once before. She had battled personal demons that we only knew about until after she was gone. She home-schooled her girls and always looked so cheerful. So happy. Her husband liked golf. He would leave her in the afternoons to go play and she would hang out with the kids. Get dinner ready. Set up for a dinner party with a few friends. On the outside, I thought she was happy. We were wrong. Inside she was battling darkness. Darkness she hid from almost everyone. Especially her neighbors and friends who saw her every day. Why didn’t she say something?

One summer afternoon, right as she was getting ready for dinner; she put down the meat she was marinating, the salad greens she was putting in a bowl and she went upstairs to the master bathroom and shot herself. Her four little girls, ages 1 year to 8 years old, were home. No one heard anything. But when a neighbor discovered her after the eldest went next door to say she didn’t know where mommy was; the horror began for this cul-de-sac. You never, ever want to see a coroner’s van on your street.

Is this post about suicide or depression? Well, both I guess.

I’m trying to get people to understand that depressed folks do in fact, take their own lives. And I don’t understand how anyone can judge someone who needs help.

My own depression started after Emma was born. She was 3 months old and I could feel myself slipping into what I guessed was post-partum depression. James was helpful. My mom was helpful. I got myself through it. But a year and a half after that a friend passed away from breast cancer. I couldn’t snap out of my grief. I was melancholy, crying and having a hard time just getting through the day.

My doctor prescribed an anti-depressant. A very low dose of Prozac. It was just enough to help me. I admit, I’ve tried quitting cold turkey a couple of times. Thinking that I feel good enough not to take it and then go a couple weeks without. Boy is THAT a BAD IDEA. Even the low dose needs a doctor to help you wean off of it. But not only that, without it, the chemicals in my brain are such that, I would be sad, crying, bitter, helpless. I don’t need to be those things. I am not those things the chemicals, or lack of, make me.

I know a friend that did though and she got help. She is the bravest person I know to have checked herself into the psych unit at a local hospital when she realized that harming herself would be okay. I’m so grateful she took that step. She got help and we supported her for it.

Please don’t tell someone all the things they should be doing differently, or that maybe they shouldn’t have had children in the first place if motherhood is such a burden. Is motherhood harder than expected? Yes. Would I trade it for anything? No. Do I need my sanity for it? You betcha!

Nobody’s life is perfect. Nobody can understand what it is like to live as anyone else. You haven’t walked a mile in their shoes, nor could you.

I’ve disclosed to several friends, happily even, that I got help, got some meds and feel so much better.

They too have told me that they got help themselves. That they weren’t sure they should take any pills. That they were embarrassed to tell their spouse about it or tell their doctor they need help. But that after talking to me, they took that next step to talk to their doctor. And they are glad they did.

Wake up people. If a man has no problem telling his doctor he needs erectile dysfunction drugs, then we shouldn’t make a woman feel bad that she needs drugs to keep her mental health in order.

The stigma related to anti-depressants is still out there. Maybe some of you reading this post are shaking your heads at me wondering why I would go such a route. Well, because it works for me. It helps me.

I don’t want to be that mom who contemplates what a gun would feel like. How long my car’s fumes would take. I will NOT be that person.

I will be here for my children. I will make sure that I am in control. That I can see things clearly.

If you need help. Please get some. If you can’t figure out what is making you feel sad and the sad doesn’t go away. Talk to your doctor. If your spouse will understand, tell them. It’s okay.

If you need to tell just me, I will listen too.

I want to thank Honest Mom for her candid and honest discussion you can read here, and The Bearded Iris for her bravery, and The Bloggess for inspiring me to write this post. For giving those with depression a voice and for keeping the conversation going. Thank you. Take care my friends. And be understanding to one another.

Today’s post was not written by me. This is a true account of a friend of mine and her fight to keep her friend alive. You see, I know of suicide. I know children of parents that have committed suicide. It’s an ugly bitch. It leaves the people behind confused, angry and grieved. When my friend asked if she could use my blog as a space to share her story, I didn’t hesitate. I want her story to be shared without any worry of identities being discovered. If this story speaks to you, then message me or her and we can get you help.

**************

First, I want to take the opportunity to thank Frugalista for allowing me to post anonymously on her blog.
You see, I am a blogger, however, given the nature of this situation, I could not post this on my blog, but I
had to get it out. I needed to get it out. For my own personal mental health and so maybe, just maybe
if you are having thoughts of ending your own life you will read my words and know you are loved and
that you are not alone. If you think you know who I am, please do not post anything about my identity
publicly. Instead, email me at youarelovedalways2012@gmail.com.
My best friend, Mary left her abusive, sociopath of a husband earlier this year and her already precarious
mental health started to spiral downwards rather quickly after she left. She has always suffered from
depression. So this summer, when I received the first call for help, I was expecting it.
What I wasn’t expecting was to see someone so sad and so hysterical that no amount of words could get
through to her. She was convinced that her daughter would be better off without her. She convinced
herself that she was a burden to everyone and that she was worthless. She couldn’t work; she couldn’t
get out of bed. She was in a completely irrational state of mind. I tried everything I could to make her
see the devastation and destruction her daughter would face if she killed herself. It didn’t work.
Nothing worked. I have never in my life experienced someone in this state of mind, with so much raw
pain that it seemed to just emanate from her soul. It was heart-wrenching to experience and we didn’t
know what to do.
We got her to bed that night and in the morning after the pills and the booze wore off she seemed to be
okay. In her sober, rational state of mind, she knew she couldn’t kill herself, she knew it would destroy
people. She knew the pain would go away. We tried over and over to get her to seek counseling. But,
no matter what we said, she repeatedly stated that therapy wouldn’t work.
After that incident, we considered an intervention to force her to get help. It didn’t sit right. I can’t
really explain it, except to say, I knew it wasn’t the right time.
Over the next several months, we tried to brainstorm with her to figure out ways for her to make an
income, because her asshole husband refused to provide any support. We got her an attorney. Her
parents provided for her financially. She cashed in a 401K to support herself. We had a plan for her to
take some classes. Most days she felt good and positive. But it was just a mask.
Then, just a few weeks ago, she stopped returning my calls and texts.
Friday night our other friend, Carrie, called; she was the one I was with during the above episode. Mary
had called her wanting her jewelry out of the safety deposit box. Carrie was concerned and so I called
Mary and thankfully, she answered.
I asked her why she wanted her jewelry. She wanted to sell it so her daughter would be provided for.
She said she had found a place for her beloved dog and was giving up custody of her daughter to her
daughter’s father. She also stated that she was meeting with her attorney to make sure her will was
updated so that her soon to be ex-husband would not receive any of her assets, “in case something
happens.”
“What do you mean, in case something happens?” I asked, already knowing what she meant.
“Well, I’m not going to kill myself. But I just can’t do it anymore. I don’t want to burden anybody
anymore. My daughter will be fine. She doesn’t need me.”
The most terrifying and disturbing part about that conversation was the nonchalant manner in which
she was saying these things. She had a plan. She wasn’t the hysterical crying mess that she had been
previously. She was sober and serious. I knew that night that no words I could possibly say would make
a difference. I told her I loved her and I would talk to her tomorrow.
Saturday morning we got on the phone with her parents and conferenced in the suicide prevention
hotline. After repeating the conversation from the night before, he was understandably concerned and
advised us to dispatch a crisis van. He also informed us that if she didn’t go voluntarily then we could go
to the courthouse, file a petition and have her involuntarily placed in a treatment facility. We were
prepared to do that.
We met the crisis van at her house and she was pissed, angry and betrayed. It took nearly 2 hours to
convince her to go with them. We did have to threaten to file the petition, but she went.
I spoke to her that night and she said the place was miserable. She didn’t get a bed and she had to sit in
a room with 25 people, mostly men. She did not sleep.
She met with the nurse practitioner the following morning to be evaluated. She refused to say that she
was a danger to herself and they had no choice but to discharge her.
After learning this, I immediately starting searching for hospitals. I got on the phone to make payment
arrangements, as she does not have health insurance and cannot qualify for state or federal aid due to
the fact that her divorce is not final. I found one and I met our friend Carrie at the facility Mary was at
awaiting discharge. We sat down with her and a counselor and, again, tried to talk her into staying. She
refused. We then told her we found a hospital with a women’s unit. She refused. She didn’t care what
we did, she wasn’t going. She didn’t need counseling or therapy. She just needed to be left alone. She
slammed out of the room.
The counselor followed. And I have no idea what he said, but within 2 minutes she agreed to go with us.
I can only say that our prayers were answer.
We got in the car, chain smoked cigarettes, all of us nervously awaiting the next chapter. We arrived at
the hospital and began the 4 hour intake process. We stayed with her the entire time. She almost left.
She almost left again. But she didn’t.
At this point, she had been awake for nearly 30 hours. She was so tired. She agreed to stay. That’s
what matters. She is right where she needs to be to get better. To learn how to cope with what
happened to her. To deal with the ugly and the nasty. To learn how to prepare for the future.
I visited on Tuesday. It was difficult and a little awkward. But she seemed better.
I have no regrets about what I did. Nor am I concerned with the state of our friendship. I’m not sure
that she will forgive me. I’ve made peace with that.
I would rather her be angry with me than be dead.

*******
If you or anyone in your life needs help- please contact these organizations-

I’m not going to give you any bull shit here. I am not my natural happy self all the time. In fact, I can be a real bitch. (no comment James) My favorite question from the husband, ‘why are you so crabby, did you forget to take your pill?’ Back off asshole! I’m crabby because you load the dishwasher like a drunk monkey that is blind and you can’t seem to remember that your clothes go in your closet and not on our bathroom floor!

As I was saying…

I take prozac. Just a small dosage. It’s called Sarafem. It’s for PMDD. Premenstrual dysphoric disorder. (I know guys, I lost you at premenstrual…)

I seriously don’t know how I would function without it. And I want to tell you my story so you don’t feel bad about yourself, or guilty, or inadequate or whatever fucked up guilt trip you can place that most of us moms/women do to ourselves.

About 10 years ago my good friend Julie died of breast cancer. She was 41. It was in the gloomy post holiday month of January and I couldn’t seem to get a grip on life. Emma was not quite 2 years old and I stayed home with her, like I have done since the day she was born and still do for my kids. I had never lost anyone close to me. Not a peer anyway. Every day felt like PMS. Every day felt gloomy and lonely, especially home with a toddler where I had no interaction with adults accept for reruns of the Golden Girls and Oprah. My doctor put me on Sarafem which is for PMDD. Like PMS, but different. (Sort of a personality disorder, personality being- you are a bitch no matter what and you can’t blame PMS for it)

Thankfully the little dose of seratonin each day helps keep my chemicals in a happy balance. I am primarily a positive person. I stay cheerful for my children, my spouse and my friends. I don’t like to wallow. But there’s days, maybe weeks, I feel sorry for myself. And then I feel sorry for myself for being so lousy about feeling sorry for myself! I know there’s other people who have it worse, who live with cancer, who lost their job, who have addiction, whose spouse is overseas serving our country, or whatever else that burdens them. But my bad days are MY bad days. So I let myself have one or two, then slap myself across the face (sort of) and say pull yourself together. And go buy a new handbag. Just kidding James. Sort of. Not really. Usually lipstick. Or shoes. Mostly lipstick…

My point is, I think we need to be honest about our bad days. What are we ashamed of? Who are we fooling?

Do whatever you can to help yourself. Seriously.

A woman in my neighborhood 3 years ago, shot and killed herself while home with her 4 little children. She was manically depressed. I always thought she was happy, managing her household of little kids. I was wrong. Every now and then, if she had said to anyone in the neighborhood, “please excuse me if you hear me yelling at my kids, they are pissing me off…or, sorry if I haven’t changed my clothes in 2 days, I am so exhausted that I can’t see straight”, then maybe she still would be with us and her children. Maybe she would’ve had that release of, ‘I’m flawed, and that’s okay.’ Although I think she had more mental baggage than just that. But I still think of all of us women in that boat of ‘how did the day go by and I haven’t brushed my teeth yet or organized the pantry shelves’, kind of day.

Another story comes from my cousin who found her best friend hanging from a rope. Another suicide, another depression. My childhood friend shot herself last spring. Depression, suicide.

Folks. When a woman talks about her depression or her medications for it, don’t tell her she’s weak for relying on something to make her ‘normal’. Don’t say that you would ‘never’ take something that alters yourself to be a functioning person. Those statements are so nauseatingly inaccurate, it makes my head spin. Depression is the evil beast that alters you. Not the medicine.

Of course there’s the argument of when people stop their meds, change their meds or certain side effects of meds that do alter their thinking. That is another discussion for another day.

All I can think of is the 8 children I already know without a mother. Will you tell them it’s a weakness to take a prescription for their mental health?

Do you tell diabetics they are pathetic for taking insulin? They should just change their diet, is that it?

If you haven’t figured out already, I’m pleading to us all to be more understanding, to not judge, to not say you’d ‘never’ do something when you haven’t walked a mile in someone’s shoes.

So I just wanted you to know, nobody is perfect,especially me. Maybe when we peel back the layers, take down the walls, we can accept each other and ourselves with whole hearts. Why do we punish ourselves, –there’s a whole lot of therapy in that answer. But start with loving yourself, and just go from there. Easier said than done, I know. But it will spread like pond ripples I am sure.